154 



A FAVOURITE TUNE. 



and shade of our miserable hut. The post- 

 master seems a surly, ill-tempered brute, and 

 our guide^ who occupies a broken chair under 

 the roof of our doorway, has entreated us 

 not to enter his house, or appear desirous of 

 making acquaintance with any part of his 

 family; as he is evidently inclined to quarrel 

 with us. We have therefore had nothing to 

 do but to eat and drink, and listen all the day 

 long to a poor cracked guitar, on which one of 

 the ladies of our grumbling landlord has been 

 constantly strumming the same air. This tune, 

 if tune it can be called, has very little variety in 

 its composition, but seems to be the only one 

 known to the simple inhabitants of these regions ; 

 as it is played every where, and on all occasions. 



There is something political in the bad feel- 

 ing of the gauchos of Buenos Ayres towards 

 Europeans ; for since the Federalists have beat 



